


For the Journey

by whelvenwings



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Phichit Chulanont, Coincidences, Fairy Tale Elements, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Dancing, World Travel, Writer Katsuki Yuuri, Writer Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: Yuuri is a writer, spending what little money he has on travelling from place to place. He's trying to rediscover something - creativity, passion, skill... he can't put a name to it. All he knows is that he's looking for something.What he doesn't expect to find, though, is his writing hero - Viktor Nikiforov - sitting beside him at an airport. And then again, at a train station hundreds of miles away... and again, and again. They can't seem to stop finding each other, all across the world - but what does it mean? Are they supposed to be together?They'll have to decide for themselves.





	For the Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdizzion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdizzion/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for MY BRILLIANT AND LOVELY OTHER FRIEND. Cheetah, gue sayang tawa lo, gue sayang jiwa cantik lo, dan gue sayang jantung lo karena ini kayak matahari - berseri-seri dan baik. GUE CINTA LOOOOOOO dan maaf bu guru, gue tahu, gue nggak bilang bahasa indonesia bagus. GUE AKAN BELAJAR LEBIH BANYAK. oh god I'm stopping now I'm so sorry I know that was terrible. I am a tomat matang who is trying her best. FORGIVE ME FOR THE WRONGS I'VE DONE TO YOUR LANGUAGE and I hope you enjoy your birthday present!!! LOVE U SO MUCH CHEETAH <3

__

 

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ thought Katsuki Yuuri, _aged 23, buying himself a coffee and hoping it will stave off the hunger pangs, even though he knows it won’t work. It’s a metaphor for the eternal hopefulness of man, it’s an analogy, it’s..._

Yuuri paid for his coffee.

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ thought Katsuki Yuuri, _aged 23, who needs to learn how not to self-narrate._

He walked away from the coffee shop, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder. He stepped out of a small inside into a larger, grander inside, from the low-ceilinged cosiness of the coffee shop to the glassy, dark expanse of the airport terminal. The great window panes, so high above, glowed in reflected light; the night sky was an inky backdrop. It was like being inside a grand mirror-beast, a transparent dragon, swallowed whole.

Yuuri took a sip of his coffee. It was a little too bitter, but he hadn’t been expecting to like it. Coffee, as always, was a cruel necessity, a potion to spell away tiredness and hunger. His stomach rumbled as he took a seat on one of the ergonomic benches littering the terminal, and Yuuri did his best to ignore it.

 _Singapore Welcomes You!_ read an electronic billboard overhead. Yuuri stared up at it for a second, watching the letters dance on the giant screen, absently adjusting his glasses with one hand and pushing his hair out of his eyes. It felt slightly greasy with travel already, even though he still had the longest leg of his journey to go.

The airport itself wasn’t nearly as faceless as the ones that Yuuri was used to. Changi Airport seemed to be a city all on its own; Yuuri, accustomed to the drab steeliness and overcrowding of smaller airports, felt wrongfooted by all the space around him - dark, glittering space. The place was an airy cavern of commuters, hushed and strangely arcane - liminal - in the way that all airports must be.

No one came to sit on a bench near Yuuri; in fact, there were three other sets of seats nearby, all empty. People were meandering across the vast corridor, pushing trolleys - but then Yuuri looked back at them and the glamour veil lifted from his eyes, and no, in fact, they were walking fairly quickly. It was only that in the hugeness of the space, their progress seemed slow. Everything was very quiet, the sounds of people talking and walking muffled by distance.

Yuuri closed his eyes for a brief moment.

_And here’s Katsuki Yuuri, aged 23, wishing he were anywhere but here, and also never wanting to get up again._

His stomach growled, and Yuuri fed it some more coffee. The styrofoam cup felt good in his hands, at least - warm to the touch, comfortingly so. Steam curled off the top of it, drawing curls and runes in the air. He wrapped his fingers around it in a way that he thought looked pretty, and then - becoming absorbed - in a way he thought looked angry, and then in a way he thought looked sad, his hands shifting. His mind was a pleasant blank.

Someone walked past, a little closer than Yuuri had expected, and reminded him that he wasn’t alone in the airport as he made a drama out of holding his coffee. He cleared his throat, and tried to remember how to grip the cup normally. One hand there, the other hand - there? Yes.

Airports were always hard to remember how to be a real person in.

Yuuri took another sip of coffee, savouring it as best he could. He wouldn’t be getting anything else, food or drink, until he got onto his second flight in an hour or so’s time and dinner was served by the flight crew.

“No, no,” said the person who’d walked past Yuuri, speaking in English. “That will not be acceptable.”

Yuuri resisted the urge to look over at whoever was speaking. The voice was attractive - fairly deep, and accented, though Yuuri couldn’t immediately place it. European, he’d guess. The man was sitting on one of the benches slightly behind his own, just out of the line of his peripheral vision.

“It is not a question of the deadline. It is a question of _quality._ I have nothing yet that is sufficiently…” The man seemed to be interrupted, because he stopped talking in favour of making small noises of disgruntled understanding. Even those were musical, a little reluctant concerto. “I will not give you writing of bad quality. And that’s all I have.”

 _Mood,_ Yuuri thought to himself, and then rolled his eyes. _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri, starving author, relating to random strangers in airports who can’t write well. Because there’s always a new low to hit._

“We must lay many eggs of normal quality before there’s a golden one,” the man said. “No, that’s not a Russian saying. I thought of it myself. And it was terrible, yes? So, you see why we can’t send what I have written now to be published! It’s full of metaphors like _that._ ”

Published? Yuuri raised his eyebrows to himself. So, the man sitting behind him was some kind of author, too? He couldn’t resist looking round any longer; the siren song pull was too strong.

He turned - and before he could snap his lips closed, he felt his soul itself escape on his sharp outward breath.

Across the way, he watched the man who had been talking take a deep breath in.

That silver hair. Those blue eyes. That slight smirk on those full lips. Yuuri would know him anywhere: it was the man whose writing he’d followed obsessively for years. It was his favourite author. It was Viktor Nikiforov.

 _Viktor Nikiforov._ Was sitting right behind him. In the airport. Yuuri turned back to face the front, blinked, and then peeked back again.

He was still there. He was talking expansively on the phone, his free hand gesturing wildly, but Yuuri had lost the ability to comprehend language and didn’t understand a word that was being said; his ears were full of multiple exclamation marks, and nothing else was getting through.

It was really him. Yuuri was _sure_ of it. The accent, the look, what he’d been saying about being published - it all fit together.

Viktor Nikiforov, legendary author - the reason that Yuuri had ever wanted to be a writer in the first place - was within earshot. If he wanted, Yuuri could yell something at him. He could shout I LOVE YOUR WORK, or MARRY ME, or BANANAS, and Viktor would hear it.

Yuuri, dizzied by the possibility of actually being heard when shouting the name of a random fruit at his idol, set his coffee cup down with a trembling hand on the empty seat beside him.

He had to _do_ something. He couldn’t just - he couldn’t just walk away, could he? From _Viktor Nikiforov?_ This was a once in a lifetime chance. He had to go over there, and tell Viktor… everything. How fantastic Yuuri thought his writing was, how much his stories had changed Yuuri’s life. He _had_ to go over there.

And yet, when Yuuri tried to think about standing up and walking across the short distance between them, his head began to swim. He could feel his heart thudding painfully in his chest; he managed to be somehow far too close to his own body, and also floating somewhere above it in the great expanse of space above his head.

A couple of people sauntered past him, paying no attention to either him or the superstar behind him.

Didn’t they _know?_ Why was no one taking pictures? Where were his adoring fans?

Yuuri chanced another glance backwards.

Viktor was staring at his phone. Yuuri allowed his gaze to linger, breath caught in his throat. Even the way Viktor scrolled was elegant, the phone cupped in his hand like a votive, his thumb curved over it protectively. The lights in the airport, soft and greyish, put gentle contours under his cheekbones. He looked like a creature of the night, a moon king, examining some mystic spelled object; he looked absorbed, and slightly sad. A tragedy turned too far inward to understand properly, only the beautiful outward shine of it visible. Yuuri wished he could watch forever -

As though sensing the scrutiny, Viktor looked up. Yuuri whipped back around to face front, his eyes closing as he silently begged the universe to be kind to him. _Don’t let him realise I was staring. Don’t let him know. Please. I will give you my left leg. I will give you my firstborn. I will give you my coffee._

He didn’t dare turn around again to look. Instead, he sat - tense and rigid - trying to figure out a way that it would be possible to go and say hello. But he’d ruined that, hadn’t he? There was no way Viktor would want to talk to the person who had quite obviously been creepily staring at him just a few moments before.

Yuuri put his face into his hands. Before even really getting started - before saying a single word - Yuuri had managed to completely ruin his chances with Viktor Nikiforov.

He snorted at himself. Like he’d ever had _chances._ What was he thinking?

Behind his hands, the world was even quieter. Yuuri had the sensation of being in a cave within a cave, a pocket of dark in a dark pocket. He breathed out through lips that still tasted of coffee.

“Excuse me,” said a voice.

A voice with an Eastern European accent.

It wasn’t… _possible._ And yet there was a stirring of magic in Yuuri’s chest - a brightness, that seemed to sit exactly where his soul had rested once, before he’d breathed it away. The magic murmured, _possible. It’s possible. It could be._

Yuuri dropped his hands away from his face. Blue eyes were watching him; a slight smile was being turned his way.

“Eehh?” Yuuri managed, a vaguely interrogative sound.

“Is this seat taken?” Viktor indicated the seat beside Yuuri with a long, pale, delicate hand.

Yuuri swallowed and shook his head - once to each side, the most movement he could manage. And with that, Viktor’s face transformed into a beam, the sweetest and happiest smile that Yuuri could imagine - it hit him like a shock to the heart, more brilliant and instant than lightning.

Viktor sat down in the seat beside Yuuri, like it was nothing. Like it was as simple as that.

Yuuri considered trying to say something, but his voice was - he was almost sure - utterly stolen. Viktor Nikiforov’s leg was close to his own on the ergonomic seating. Viktor Nikiforov’s arm brushed his own as he shifted. Viktor Nikiforov’s gaze was turned towards him, gentle and inquisitive and calm.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Viktor said. “I’m sure you’re busy. But I saw you sitting here, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to come and say hello. My name is Viktor.”

So… Viktor had noticed Yuuri staring, and had been kind enough - _generous_ enough - with his time, to come and pay Yuuri some attention. And he was graceful enough, too, to make it seem casual.

“Th-thank you,” Yuuri managed to stammer. “I was just waiting…” He indicated his styrofoam cup, resting on the seat to his other side. “And drinking coffee.”

“Coffee is our great saviour, is it not?” Viktor said wryly; Yuuri caught his words like silver coins out of the air. Viktor Nikiforov was _paying attention to him._

“Yes,” Yuuri said. “I often make use of it.”

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, as the conversation stalled. Yuuri swore he could hear music playing, maybe in the airport, maybe in his own mind. Slow music, sad and happy music, music that knew how impossible and incredible and fantastical this moment was - music that knew the inevitable outcome.

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri, aged 23, falling in love instantly,_ thought Katsuki Yuuri.

He didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched.

“I am from Russia,” said Viktor. “And there is a… what’s the word? When you - when everyone does something?”

“Party?”

“No… everyone does the same thing, because they always have…”

“Tradition?”

Viktor snapped his fingers. “I am tired. I promise you, my English is better than this normally.”

Yuuri wanted to laugh. As if Viktor needed to tell Yuuri that, when Viktor had written three of his eighteen published works in English.

“There is a tradition,” Viktor continued. “Before going away, one sits quietly for a moment. For the journey.”

It didn’t matter why Viktor was bothering to tell Yuuri about this - it only mattered that Yuuri was growing rich on his silver words, was hoarding them up inside him and becoming wealthier than he could have ever dreamed. He was sitting; in his mind, he was flying.

“I normally sit alone,” Viktor said.

“Oh… I can go…?” Yuuri said, making to stand up; Viktor laughed, and Yuuri found himself smiling too - Viktor’s expressions had a power to them, a magnetism.

“I didn’t come over here to make you leave your seat! I wondered…” For the first time, Viktor looked a little shy - just a touch of hesitancy, behind his smooth charm. “I thought perhaps, if someone else might understand such a tradition, it would be you.”

How had he gathered that, from a half-glance across a distance? But Yuuri couldn’t find himself doubting it for long; Viktor’s every movement, every word, promised enchantment. It was simply through magic, and that was all.

And Yuuri found that he _did_ understand. Before the rush of a journey - before the roar of the plane and the helter-skelter of baggage claims and trains and movement, it was only right to be quiet for a moment. To take in where they were, and who they were, before it all changed.

“So, I wanted to ask,” Viktor said. “Shall we sit together, for a moment? For the journey?”

Yuuri couldn’t speak; he could only nod.

Side by side, they sat in silence.

When his gate was announced, Yuuri stood. He walked away without a word, not wanting to ruin Viktor’s quiet consideration. He went, leaving his coffee cup on the seat to the right, and his soul with the man to the left.

***

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ thought Katsuki Yuuri, _aged 23, waiting for a train and making a metaphor out of it. Because there’s nothing in life that’s not a metaphor for your own dismal existence, if you look at it hard enough._

He let out a heavy sigh and pulled out his phone. The battery was low, and he didn’t have enough money to eat, let alone to make international calls. Even still, he dialled the number.

Leaning back against the wall behind him, Yuuri bit his lip as the steady, rhythmic buzzing sounded in one ear. He let his gaze roam absently over the scene in front of him as he waited for an answer: the hustling, hot platform, busy with people all speaking over each other; the scent of food and oil and dirt; the advertisement across the way with a beautiful woman on it smiling with perfect lipstick, perfect teeth. The caption read, _Çok güzel!_ To Yuuri, it looked like an esoteric script, the letters he knew surrounded by curls and spots.

On and on, the phone rang. In the air, briefly, the scent of pistachios.

“Hello?”

Yuuri felt a little explosion of warmth in his chest.

“Phichit? Hello? Is the connection OK?”

“Yuuri! Yes, it’s great, I can hear you.”

“It’s not the middle of the night, right?” Yuuri pulled his phone away from his ear to check the time, remembering too late that Phichit was locked away in another timezone.

“No, no. Well, a little bit, but I was awake anyway.”

“Oh… Phich… I’m sorry -”

“No, really. I just got a new draft from the author I’m working with. I’m sketching out ideas. Apparently she wants a draft for the full set of illustrations by Thursday, and - you know, I work fast, but it means a couple of late nights if I want to keep the job. I have big plans for this one, though. I got some new copic markers just last week and I’ve been working with them. I think I want to incorporate some traditional. Like, not the whole thing? It’s going to make it more complicated, but -”

“But you know me,” Yuuri finished, the words well-worn in his mouth. He shook his head, a little smile on his face. “She’s lucky to have you,” he said simply. “That author. She should treat you better.”

“It is what it is,” Phichit said, but he sounded pleased. “How’s Istanbul?”

Yuuri sighed.

“It’s good,” he said.

“Uh huh. And how is it really?”

Dropping his chin, Yuuri closed his eyes. Of course, Phichit could always tell when something was wrong; wasn’t that why Yuuri had called in the first place?

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ _aged 23, instantly called out in the way he knew he would be._

“It’s… I don’t know. When I was here last time, I was so full of ideas. I thought if I came back…” Yuuri swallowed. “It didn’t work out. I just - all of my ideas are terrible. Everything I think of is bad.”

He watched a train pull up to the platform in front of him, a voice overhead announcing the arrival. The mosaic-tile walls and old-fashioned clock on the wall seemed to demand a whistle scream or the chuff of steam from a funnel, but it was with a neat, modern little sigh that the automatic doors peeled open.

“Yuuri,” said Phichit cajolingly. “Hey, come on. You’re being too hard on yourself again.”

“I’m not,” Yuuri said. “I mean it. My ideas are, objectively, garbage.”

Passengers were pushing past each other in their efforts to get on and off the train; Yuuri cut his eyes sideways at their rudeness, and focused on the sound of Phichit’s voice in his ear.

“You always say that,” Phichit said. “Right before you write something amazing.”

Yuuri smiled to himself, sad and tight - the smile that knew disappointment was inevitable. He took a deep breath - inhaled the heat, the metal, the lavish reek of the station.

“Not this time, Phich.”

“Oh, come on, Yuuri…”

The train began to pull away - and when it was gone, the station was pulled out of time. The platform’s style dated it to a hundred years ago or more, and there were no passengers in modern-day dress to ruin the effect; they’d all got on the train, except Yuuri. He was quite alone.

And then, someone walked through the archway that led into the station hall.

Someone tall, wearing a loose shirt, hands elegantly slipped into his pockets. If the station was ageless, he was the creator of the spell, not the breaker of it, because he was all pasts and presents and futures combined; he had silver hair, a smooth, unlined face, and a look in his eye that was older than time itself. Seconds and minutes keep each other company, but before them there was only quiet. Only loneliness.

Before he could be surprised - before his mouth could even drop open or his eyes could widen - Yuuri realised in a flash of startling clarity that Viktor Nikiforov was lonely.

They were yards away from each other; Viktor must have been able to hear the sound of Phichit, who was sounding increasingly interrogative at the other end of the line.

“I’ll call you back,” Yuuri murmured into the phone. “No, it’s OK - it’s just - I’ll call you back, OK?”

At the sound of his voice, Viktor turned. He met Yuuri’s eyes - and Yuuri watched as the loneliness in them opened like the doors of a train, with a quiet sigh of relief.

He didn’t look surprised, Yuuri noted. Or perhaps he showed his surprise like this, with happiness.

Yuuri snapped his own mouth closed.

“You’ve been well?” Viktor said, his solicitousness a bizarrity. He sounded as though he was continuing a conversation they’d been having all along. Yuuri swallowed.

“I get by,” he said. Viktor acknowledged this with a bow of his head. “You?”

“I am well,” said Viktor, and he sounded as though he were offering his words up to Yuuri as a compensation for his own middling answer - making a little gift of his own wellness to one less fortunate. Yuuri half-smiled at him, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.

Viktor stepped forward, and came to lean against the wall beside Yuuri. He was tall, Yuuri realised now that they were standing beside each other. It wasn’t only an illusion granted by his slimness, his poise.

“I came to Istanbul to write,” Viktor said. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, folded with careful carelessness. “I think I have something.”

Yuuri let out a breath. Of course, he thought. Of course Viktor managed to succeed where Yuuri had failed. That was only right. “I came for the same reason,” he said. “But I’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing?” Viktor questioned. “I can’t imagine that anyone has _nothing._ ”

Yuuri turned to meet Viktor’s eyes. “No need to imagine,” he said dryly. “I’m standing right in front of you.” Yuuri smiled, and Viktor’s expression softened; he looked back out towards the railway lines, as though to hide the gentleness that had touched his eyes, his lips. The bright Istanbul sunshine, which gathered in golden pools wherever the shadows hadn’t chased to claim first, made a cameo portrait of his profile; Yuuri felt his fingers curl into his palm, wanting to reach out and run against the smoothness of his cheek.

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ _aged 23, wishing he could do the impossible._

“Not even bad ideas?” Viktor said.

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Thousands of those. They’re worse than nothing.”

There was a pause; Yuuri sensed Viktor gathering his thoughts, preparing to say something, and kept quiet. He let himself briefly reel in the simple fact that they were together again. _Here,_ of all places.

“Perhaps you have terrible ideas,” Viktor said. “But that doesn’t mean you should not write them. You must give yourself the opportunity to change an idea, to understand it better, or to write it well, I think? I often surprise myself with how bad my good ideas are, and how good my bad ideas are. If you never write, you will never be surprised.”

Yuuri could have cursed and kissed the enchanter who put music into the mouth of this man. His accent made a concerto of every word, rolled r’s and vowels flown high and low; as Yuuri watched, Viktor swallowed, and smiled.

“I like to be surprised. Don’t you?”

Yuuri lifted a shoulder.

“Right now,” he said honestly, “I would prefer to be able to rely on something. Like a chapter a day, maybe. Or a paycheck.”

Viktor acknowledged this with a nod of his head. His expression was warm; Yuuri’s problems - his poverty of ideas and words, his hunger, his lostness - seemed to fade. What did it matter, what did any of it matter, when Viktor lit up like that?

“Well,” Viktor said. “You’re still here. That means you can always turn to the next blank page, yes?”

Yuuri shrugged his shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant and feeling anything but.

“How?” he asked. He felt as though he’d been scribbling the same words on the same page for a hundred years, each time expecting them to come out new. Viktor looked slightly alarmed by the question; Yuuri saw him, for the first time, without an answer.

He was human, Yuuri thought. It was a good realisation.

“Perhaps…” Viktor said, the word flying loosely as a flag in the wind.

“A journey,” Yuuri supplied. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and met Viktor’s gaze. “They’re a good way to get a fresh start, right?”

“You’re taking a journey today?” Viktor asked; in answer, Yuuri only held out his hands to encompass the station in which they were standing. Viktor nodded, looking thoughtful. With a slight tilt of his head, he pointed out a bench not too far from where they were standing.

“Well,” Viktor said slowly. “You know... in Russia, we have a…”

“Party?” Yuuri interrupted, his heart tripping as he attempted humour - and was rewarded with an eyes-closed, wide smile laugh.

“Yes! Oh, dear. Well, it’s true, we do have many parties. But we also have... a tradition.” He raised his eyebrows at Yuuri.

“Shall we sit for a while?” he said. His eyes were twinkling. “For the journey?”

When they sat down, it was a little too close and nowhere near close enough - and it felt right, it felt true to sit that way. Because Yuuri knew Viktor - knew him inside out, knew how he _wrote,_ the profoundest way to know anyone - but he also didn’t know him nearly well enough.

The silence was gentle, this time - not liminal, like the airport, but rather hot and kind and real.

A train came, as trains inevitably do, and Yuuri stood up. As though they were attached with thread, Viktor stood with him, and walked him over to the edge of the platform.

“I’ll…” Yuuri began, and then didn’t know how to finish - didn’t want to presume to make a promise for a future of any kind between them, whilst at the same time finding a certain crystal clarity in his mind that this would not be the last time they met. Rather than tie himself up with words - words, which had been so treacherous to him of late - he only nodded to Viktor, who smiled back.

Yuuri turned away and began to move down inside the train. The carriage was empty; it wasn’t a popular train, nor a common time to travel.

That felt right, and true, too.

Glancing outside the window, Yuuri saw that Viktor was following his progress along the platform - walking with him. When Yuuri chose his seat, Viktor came to a halt right beside him; his hands were still in his pockets, ever the image of controlled perfection.

Yuuri would have done nothing - would have only waved goodbye, and let the train leave - if it hadn’t been for the loneliness. There it was again, in Viktor’s eyes; blooming back like forget-me-nots, incorrigible. And Yuuri found himself delving into his pocket, tearing off a corner of one of his travel documents - it didn’t matter which one - and scribbling down his number with the stub of a pencil that he always kept with him.

It was prosaic, and foolish, to simply give his number to Viktor Nikiforov. Wasn’t it? It would break the spell between them, it would make their bond too forced, too attempted.

And yet - the loneliness -

The train sighed and groaned, ready to be off. Yuuri, in a sudden rush, stood up; he pulled open the thin train window. He pushed his hand out, holding the scrap of paper, reaching; as if in slow motion, he saw Viktor start to raise his hand.

It was taking too long, there wasn’t time. The train was starting to move. Before they were out of touching distance, before the moment was lost and the scrap of paper consigned to rest in his hand, Yuuri did the only thing he could - gave the scrap of paper to Viktor in the only way that would work in time. It was a split-second decision that seemed to last hours, in that ageless station.

Gently - impossibly slowly, and terribly fast - he pressed the piece of paper into Viktor’s mouth.

His thumb grazed the inside of Viktor’s lower lip.

And then he was pulled away, the train picking up speed. He watched Viktor for as long as he could - until the train reached a curve, and took the station out of sight. There - it was done.

Yuuri sat down in his seat.

After some time - unable to resist - he pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

***

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ thought Katsuki Yuuri, _aged 23, freezing cold, and wondering why some inner part of him seems to recognise the feeling._

_And remembering he was supposed to stop self-narrating._

Yuuri pulled his scarf closer to his neck, and winced as he took a breath in. The cool air kissed the bottom of his lungs, chilling him. He walked the last few steps towards the little bus station in front of him, his eyes lingering on the yellow sign that read _Tre Archi_ in bold, definitive type.

No one else was outside. Between the tall, closely-packed buildings, there was a mist; it rose off the canals like the sighed-out breaths of sirens, twirling in the air, cold and light and hazy. The narrow and deserted street where Yuuri was standing, paved in light stone, felt somehow poised - waiting for something.

Yuuri pulled out his phone in a hand with fingers that were turning blue, and pulled down his notification bar. He had a missed call from his bank, a message from Phichit, and a weather card from Google. _3_ _°C today in Venice,_ it read. _Overcast, with a chance of snow._

Yuuri shivered and pushed his hands back into his pockets, tucking his phone away. The vaporetto - the water bus that he was waiting for - wasn’t due to arrive for another twenty minutes; as usual, he hadn’t been able to resist turning up incredibly early for the start of his journey. It was just to alleviate the worry of missing his flight, Yuuri told himself. It was just - practical. That was all.

It had nothing to do with anyone else potentially turning up, like he had done a couple of previous times when Yuuri had been about to begin a long journey. Viktor - Yuuri exhaled a sharp cloud of visible breath, just at the name - had nothing to do with it.

He had nothing to do with Yuuri. He _wanted_ nothing to do with Yuuri. He’d made that all too clear, when he hadn’t called once in the six months since they’d met in Istanbul.

It didn’t hurt. Viktor was too much of a dream to cause Yuuri any real pain - at least, that’s what Yuuri told himself.

He knew he should go inside the vaporetto stop, shelter from the ever-more indigo clouds and the slight breeze. But the inside of the stop was dirty and metallic, and - and outside was Venice, was tall and beautiful and serene, smelling of water and salt and cold. Yuuri wanted to enjoy his last few minutes here.

He leant up against the wall of one of the buildings - a delicately pink one - and blew a plume of water-vapour-breath up towards the sky. As though returning his gift, the sky kissed him on the cheek with its first fallen snowflake.

Yuuri pressed his hand to the place where it had fallen. Now, truly, he should go inside - but more flakes began to fall, slowly and silently, dreamlike. Yuuri blinked as one fell onto his eyelashes, and melted; they were in his hair, on his shoulders. How bizarre snow was, he thought. How wonderful.

He wanted to - to twirl on the street, wanted to do something strange and beautiful with his body so that he could be a part of the scene - one with the ice-cold green-blue water of the canal, the curve of the bridge not too far away, the soft cake-icing pink of the building behind him. He wanted to belong here.

He smiled, and breathed out, and it felt like a start.

The snowflakes shifted in a swirl at the breath of a light breeze, ruffled. Yuuri felt a pull - just the lightest of touches, a ghost of a hand on his chin, guiding his head around to look to his right.

An empty street was all that he saw. He shook his head. Not this time, then. Not this time -

Through the diamond air came the easy sighs of music. Yuuri squinted, his ears reaching to catch the song - there was a man singing, deep and operatic. Piano notes were soft beneath. The song was ethereal, was unreal - but it had words, the man was shaping words. Someone in one of the buildings was playing music, their windows open.

 _Stammi vicino,_ it went. _Non te ne andare. Ho paura di perderti..._

A figure, in the mist. Through the snow. Tall, slender; a silhouette, a dream of a person. Yuuri shook his head. It couldn’t be; there was no way. Not again. Surely not. It was impossible. The music quietened, as though in deference to the arrival.

Silver hair, and blue eyes.

Yuuri shook his head, and let the sense of inevitability flood him.

This time, Viktor’s mouth fell open. This time, it was Yuuri who met Viktor’s eyes knowingly, wryly.

_And here’s Katsuki Yuuri, feeling like a snowflake on the eyelash of the universe._

“You?” Viktor said, and then his shoulders - under the thick coat he was wearing - seemed to relax. “Of course.”

“You’re always here,” Yuuri said, a little stupidly. Viktor, in his big coat and his scarf, with roses on his cheeks and snow in his hair, fitted in perfectly with everything around him. He looked more beautiful than ever.

“Well,” said Viktor. “So are you.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Viktor said. He raised a slight smile as the snow whirled around him. “Why not?”

 _Because you didn’t call,_ Yuuri wanted to say. _Because if you don’t… feel anything for me, then what is the point of the universe putting us in the same place again and again?_

“Because,” he said out loud, “the world is too big for us to keep meeting like this.”

He stood up straight, away from the wall; they faced each other. Hands tucked into pockets, faces numbed by the cold, they looked at each other. Yuuri tried to read Viktor - tried to understand him - but only saw his own confusion reflected back to him, distorted, as the falling snow was seen in the aquamarine waters of the canal.

“You didn’t call,” Yuuri said softly.

Viktor blinked.

“ _I_ didn’t call?” he said. “You never replied to me, I - after a week, I stopped trying. I thought perhaps you had changed your mind.” His voice, his accent, was the spell that kept the snow falling. Yuuri felt his heart sway dangerously, and tried to hold very, very still, so that he wouldn’t fall over with its swinging weight inside his chest.

“You - I never got a call,” he said thickly.

Viktor stared at him. Quickly - almost too quickly for Yuuri to catch - he reeled off a list of numbers.

“What?”

“Your number. That’s what you wrote. On the piece of paper. I dialled it so many times that I know it by heart now, and -”

“No, wait - the last number? You said six. It’s not six. You didn’t say my number.”

“That’s what you _wrote._ ”

Yuuri shook his head. “I wrote my phone number.” He smiled tightly. “It’s alright. I know I’m just a fan, and you really had no reason to - you don’t even know my name, and -”

Viktor’s eyes widened.

“Yuuri,” he said, for the first time, and the single word shook the very snow around them. Yuuri let out a soft gasp; if his soul hadn’t already been Viktor’s, hadn’t belonged to Viktor from the very first moment, it would have flown then. His _name._ Viktor had said his _name._

“Viktor…” he said quietly, sure that the snow swallowed the sound. Viktor took two steps closer; he met Yuuri’s eyes solemnly. They were near enough now that Yuuri could see the melted-snow wetness of his hair, the paleness of his cold lips. Close enough for Yuuri to be able to reach out and touch him, if he wanted. If he had the courage.

“Why do you think I came up to you at the airport?” Viktor said. “Yuuri… of course I know you. I have read all of your books.”

Yuuri swallowed. He half-shook his head, disbelieving.

Viktor… Viktor _knew_ him? Those books - those books were Yuuri’s heart. And Viktor had read all of them.

“You…?” he managed.

Viktor breathed out, a clouded sigh - and Yuuri breathed it in.

He wasn’t sure if it was his own soul he could taste in his mouth, cold and sweet - or if it was Viktor’s. Perhaps a little of both, he thought. Perhaps - though not the same - they were right together. They were good.

He exhaled, and Viktor breathed it back in. The closeness of it, the intimacy, was shocking. To share breath; to share souls; to share something that went beyond words, that was ineffable - it was bone-shaking, it was terrifying. Yuuri could feel his heart pounding.

“You are going away somewhere?” Viktor said softly.

“I leave Venice today,” Yuuri replied, hushed, matching his tone.

Viktor bowed his head. His smile was a dry acknowledgement - both of their bad timing, and of the inevitability of what came next.

“Well then. You know… in Russia,” Viktor said, “we have a tradition.” His eyes hadn’t left Yuuri’s, his gaze intense, but his lips quirked a smile that eased the tension of the moment. “So… shall we... sit together for a moment? For the journey?”

He escorted Yuuri into the _Tre Archi_ station like a gentleman, his gloved hand touching Yuuri’s ungloved one only once. When the vaporetto arrived, neither of them was ready.

“Are you…?” Yuuri said. Viktor shook his head.

“I stopped because you were here,” he said. Yuuri smiled.

“I’m glad I was,” he said, standing up. “I’m glad you were. I wish I could stay…”

“You must go. They won’t wait,” Viktor said, and Yuuri knew he was right; the drivers of the vaporetti weren’t forgiving of latecomers. For a second, he considered not boarding it; but he knew that if he stayed now, he wouldn't get on the next boat, or the one after. He’d miss his flight, and he couldn’t afford to do that.

He turned away from Viktor, and climbed aboard the vaporetto; it swayed and lurched beneath his feet.

When he was aboard, he walked to the back of the deserted open deck. Viktor was standing on the street, impossibly tall and beautiful; he took his hand out of his pocket and gave Yuuri a sad, small little wave.

“Call me,” Yuuri said. “It’s not a six at the end. It’s a zero. Call me.”

He could still feel Viktor’s breath inside him - Viktor’s breath, that had been in his body, and was now within Yuuri.

“I’ll call you,” Viktor promised.

The boat groaned and began to move, churning up white foam. Yuuri, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, watched Viktor until the swirling snow closed around him like a curtain.

***

Yuuri pushed open the door to the restaurant, his heart pounding. The place was well-heated, and in his suit Yuuri was already a little too warm. He took a deep breath in and then let it go, steadying himself.

“Sir?” enquired the maître d', a woman with a neat blonde ponytail and flawless crimson lipstick. Yuuri cleared his throat nervously.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m here meeting Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Of course, Mr Katsuki. Please come through. And may I say, it’s an honour for us to host you.” She turned away and began to lead him into the restaurant proper; the place was plush, of course, chandeliers dripping crystals on the ceiling and thick red carpet on the floor.

“It is?” Yuuri asked, frowning, as he followed her. He tried to surreptitiously adjust his collar as he walked past neat tables, at which well-dressed diners were eating and murmuring to each other in politely quiet voices.

“Yes, sir. I read your latest novel just last year. A fantastic read, sir.” They rounded a corner - and there, at a secluded table just beside the open doors to the darkened terrace garden, was a familiar face. Yuuri, reeling a little already with the compliment he’d been paid, smiled goofily wide; Viktor returned the grin in kind, waving enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” he told the maître d' as she sat him down at the table opposite Viktor. “And I’m glad you enjoyed the book.”

“Have a wonderful meal,” she replied, warmly professional, and then walked away with quick, unobtrusive steps. Yuuri breathed out, long and low, and then turned to look at Viktor.

Viktor beamed at him.

“You came,” he said.

Yuuri lifted a shoulder.

“How could I say no, when you called and asked?” he said, with a smile. “You know, you didn’t have to fly to meet me here especially -”

“But London is wonderful at this time of year,” Viktor said earnestly. “It sees the sun for the first time in months and stretches like a cat under it. Oh, I should write that down. That was quite good. Don’t you think?”

“I do,” Yuuri said, half-laughing. His suit, the fanciness of his surroundings, the unfamiliar luxury - all of the discomfort from it disappeared when he was talking with Viktor. “How have you been?”

“Well enough,” Viktor said. “My latest is currently undergoing editing.”

Yuuri winced. “I’m so sorry.”

Viktor picked up his wine glass and took a sip. “There are worse things,” he said, though his tone cast a shade of doubt over the proclamation. “And you, Yuuri? You’ve been well?”

“I’ve been…” Yuuri shrugged. “Much the same. Spending all my money on travel, starving in a new city each month. Not writing anything good. But…”

“But?” Viktor indicated with a hand, and a passing waiter approached; at a nod from Viktor, he poured Yuuri a glass of wine.

“But I am… writing,” Yuuri said. “Like you said, before… laying many eggs, before I find the golden one.”

Viktor inclined his head, the expression in his eyes warm with humour. “And? Was I right? Do you feel better?”

“I feel… like a child trying to dance,” Yuuri said. “Falling over. Never getting the steps right. But it is better than when I was a baby, and I couldn’t try at all.”

“Not bad,” Viktor said, and Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“Should I write it down?” he teased.

“Oh, no. It wasn’t that good.” Viktor’s seriousness set Yuuri back for a moment - and then he was laughing, because of course it hadn’t been that good, and Viktor was looking so solemnly at him, and he was still giddy on the fact that they were both _here._ Here, in a restaurant in London, secluded from the other diners by the force of Viktor’s wealth and status, with only the stars outside the open doors to the terrace for company.

A draught blew in to them, bringing the scent of a garden in West London in the spring - floral, classy, with a touch of rain.

“Shall we eat?” Viktor said, and Yuuri’s stomach rumbled. He nodded eagerly, knowing that everything on this menu was outside his budget - and just for tonight, just for one night, not caring at all.

The food was exquisite; Yuuri hadn’t expected any less. Their conversation flowed naturally, smoothly. Yuuri felt his heart clench in his chest every time Viktor laughed; every now and then, he caught sight of a look in Viktor’s eyes that he recognised - a look of heady, disbelieving admiration.

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ thought Katsuki Yuuri, _and Viktor Nikiforov, falling in love over dinner._

When they’d finished their meals, Viktor stood; he offered Yuuri his hand with a little bow, and led him out onto the terrace. It was lit by little lamps, which cast their golden light over trailing leaves and blooming spring flowers kept in pots; above them, the sky was blue-black, with only a few stars visible through the halo of London’s light.

Yuuri realised that he was staring upwards, and that Viktor hadn’t let go of his hand. He turned so that they were facing each other, fingers still loosely interlinked.

“You and me,” he said, his voice coming out low and private, gold with happiness. “Did we decide to do this? Or did the universe choose for us?”

Viktor brought up his free hand, and cupped Yuuri’s cheek.

“I have been half in love with you from the first moment I read your words,” he said. “I hoped one day we might meet. Perhaps my wishing was enough to make it so.”

“Both of our wishing,” Yuuri said. “You are the reason I started writing at all, you know.” Viktor’s hand on his cheek was making his words stutter, his breath come fast, but he did his best to speak normally.

“I am?” Viktor looked half-surprised, half-smug. Yuuri tilted his head ever so slightly sideways, and swayed closer into Viktor’s space.

“Of course,” he said simply.

“I’d love to kiss you, Yuuri.”

“If you don’t,” said Yuuri, “I think I will never speak again.”

Their lips brushed - not tentative, just moving slowly. Time felt infinite; Yuuri had never been so powerful, so terrified, so within and without his own body as in the moment when Viktor’s kiss touched to his lips.

He reached up a hand to curl around the back of Viktor’s neck, and kissed him truly - with depth, with honesty, with heat and want and meaning. He could feel his skin become silver; he could taste his own soul in Viktor’s mouth. He pulled back - wanted more - returned, and Viktor was soft and steady, allowing him to come and go. His lips were so _soft,_ so sure. His kiss was a gliding bird, a firework, a thousand and one beautiful things that Yuuri couldn’t have given names to.

When he pulled back, Viktor’s cheeks were flushed.

How strange it was, Yuuri thought. To turn a new page; to begin something new, with no idea of how it would end, or when, or why. To not feel ready to begin, and to do it anyway, to start even still. To allow for the possibility of surprise; to feel fear, to tremble at the possibility of failure or loss - and yet still to try. To lean back in, and kiss again.

Viktor smiled against Yuuri’s lips.

“You know,” he said quietly. “In Russia… we have a tradition.”

Yuuri pulled away, feeling the hidden stars shining out of his own eyes. “Viktor,” he said. “We aren’t even going anywhere.”

“No?” Viktor questioned.

“No. I’m staying here with you.”

Viktor’s smile only widened. He raised Yuuri’s hand, slipped his other palm around to rest on the flat of Yuuri’s back, as though they were dancing - sure enough, he began to step gently from one foot to the other.

“Exactly,” he said, when Yuuri was swaying with him, moving in a little circle to music that only they could hear. “We’re staying together, Yuuri. Doesn’t that make this the start of something?”

Yuuri kissed him, because he could - because he wanted to.

“The start of us?” he said. Viktor, looking reddened by the kiss, nodded.

“The start of us,” he echoed. The hand on Yuuri’s back pressed them closer against each other; his eyes were a gentle contrast to the solid line of his body against Yuuri’s. “So? Will you sit with me for a moment?” He leaned down and kissed Yuuri, before he could finish. “For the journey?”

He was a dream - but under Yuuri’s hands, under Yuuri’s lips, he was made real. He was warm and human and true. Yuuri nodded; they returned to their seats at their table, and held hands across it as they sat quietly.

Loneliness was a tangled vine that had no space to grow in Viktor’s eyes; they were too overrun with joy.

Yuuri’s head was full of sky. He could barely breathe for the clouds and the brilliant, shining, ecstatic stars within him.

 _And here’s Katsuki Yuuri,_ he thought to himself. _Aged 23. Happier than he’s ever been in his life._

He looked across the table, and had no idea where the journey would take him - if it would be good or bad, right or wrong, long or short - he only knew that he was going.

He was going. And he would never be the same again.


End file.
